Half Dome Heaven – A Story about what’s Right in the World

When I was about eight years old my family took a road trip out to California. My uncle lives out there. Being the local, he took us to all the beautiful and unique sites around the area. I remember driving a winding road out to a lighthouse. There’s a picture of us standing at an overlook of the Golden Gate bridge. And then there’s Yosemite. Oh sweet, sweet Yosemite.

It’s a beautiful park, from what I remember. It was a clear day, the blue sky raining down nothing but whimsy. We drove along a slow road, perusing past sheer cliffs with climbers like ants on the vast walls. We stopped in a wooded parking lot, and I could smell the mist. I could feel it. And I could hear it, not so much a falling but more of a reverberating. As if all the water in the world was moving in my bones.

At the end of a short pathway, finally, we could see it. Or them, really. Two beautiful – almost mythical – waterfalls. The mist fell fresh on my face. The reverberations sunk deeper and deeper as we walked closer. As a child, it was the most powerful thing I’d seen.

The magic of Yosemite for me, though, was Half Dome. We drove a little longer through a thick – maybe even ancient – forest until we stopped at a clearing. My brother and I climbed out of the car and galloped like overly-excited youngins do to see what was past the clearing. We wound like little racecars through the maze of sidewalk until we were tall enough to see it – the opening of the world. At least that’s what it seemed like. As far as my little whimsy-soaked eyes could see, there was mountain upon mountain upon mountain. And there, like a safe place among dangerous pointed peaks, was Half Dome. The clouds and blue sky and mountains reminded me of something distant, but I couldn’t put my chubby little finger on it.

My parents eventually reached the gorgeous view. We huddled close together and my uncle snapped a shot. Like most things in life, the depth of that moment was lost on me. I was just a kid on vacation with his family. Everything was right in my little world. Wouldn’t it always be like this?

Would it?

When I was old enough to be a Boy Scout our troop went up north to summer camp for a week. I was the shy kid, though. The other boys my age scared me. Dusk is when I got especially lonely. So I would strap my headlight on, crawl to the bottom of my sleeping bag, and dig out that picture of my family close together at the opening of the world. I didn’t understand why things weren’t always like that moment at Half Dome, but for a few minutes in my stuffy little sleeping bag, something was right in the world.

I don’t carry around that picture anymore, but I do have this gem that I keep tacked up on my cork board of my brother, dad, and I barely pulling off a ski pyramid. Right under that is a letter from my cousin who’s sharing Jesus with college students in Uruguay. Next to that is a picture of the English camp I got to be part of in Germany.

I know now that life gets messy and the light of all that seemed to be right and steady can fade. But when I look at these memories, when I think about that shot from California, it reminds me that in the mess of everyday…

Pictures are being taken. An intimate history is being written. Heaven is meeting earth.